Mary Steer only has her ears pierced. She will be ringing in 2018 with a long story, “The Yarnabomber,” appearing in The Ocotillo Review. It will be available for purchase by mid-January at kallistogaiapress.org. You can read more of Mary’s work at marysteer.com.

“Happy New Year” was originally published on50-Word Stories. For information on submitting to 50-Word Stories, see here.

Accessible
to beginners and meaty
enough for experienced writers, this workshop will show you how to use
dialogue to make your stories more dynamic and dramatic. Whether you’re writing
fiction or memoir, you need to be able to write great dialogue that both sounds
natural and packs dramatic punch, and you need to know how to mix your dialogue
and narrative so that your characters come alive. Come to this workshop
and learn both the basics and the best tricks of the trade.

Workshop leader Brian Henryhas been a book editor and creative writing
instructor for more than 25 years. He publishes Quick Brown Fox, Canada’s
most popular blog for writers, teaches creative writing at Ryerson University
and has led workshops everywhere from Boston to Buffalo and from Sarnia to St.
John. But his proudest boast is that he has helped many of his
students get published.

Friday, December 29, 2017

I am wondering if you
could share the following information with your readers?

Big Pond Rumours is fishing for stories
and we are not particular about the genre of the pieces that we hook. They
could be flash fiction, short fiction, or stories up to 8,000 words. They could
be detective stories, memoir, western, or artful literature, it doesn’t matter
so long as they are quality reading. We also accept poetry (send up to 6 poems)
and we are now open to publishing book reviews. Our main criteria: the work
must be previously unpublished (we take first rights only), we don’t enjoy
gratuitous violence, and remember you’ll be asked to provide a brief bio and
headshot for the contributor notes if your work is accepted.

We have two issues a
year and the deadlines are: Summer –
June 30 and Winter – December 31. Submission
details here.

Note: Ed Janzen, the editor of Story Quilt, also edits Canadian Storiesmagazine. Canadian Stories is mostly original and Canadian
true stories, memoirs, poems, limericks, songs, cartoons, line art, anecdotes,
folk stories, family legends, and travel experiences. Also fiction is accepted
if set in a Canadian context. However fiction is not the major content of the
magazine.

Note:Queries submitted to
Catholic Digest must be strongly focused on a definitive topic, and hold a
national appeal. Features are approximately 1,500 words on the following
topics: marriage, practical spirituality, prayer inspiration, Catholic
identity, parish/work, parenting, and relationships. Catholic Digest
does not accept submissions of fiction, poetry, academic papers, puzzles,
cartoons, political or opinion pieces; book, music, or movie reviews; reprinted
material.

Thursday, December 28, 2017

If you want to refine your
story-telling skills and cut the time you will need
to spend editing, this workshop is for you. You'll learn how to step back from
a manuscript in order to find – and fix – flaws in your plot, structure,
characterization and style. You'll learn how to rethink, rework and rewrite so
that your manuscript will live up to your vision.

Special Option: You’re invited to bring the first 500 –
1,000 words of one of your pieces of writing. You don’t need to bring
anything, but if you do, three copies could be helpful.

Workshop leader Brian Henry has
been a book editor and creative writing instructor for more than 25 years. He
publishes Quick Brown Fox, Canada’s most popular blog for
writers, teaches creative writing at Ryerson University and has led workshops
everywhere from Boston to Buffalo and from Sarnia to Saint John. But his
proudest boast is that he has helped many of
his students get published.

New Leaf Literary & Media is a full service management
and representation firm. In the five years since morphing from a boutique
literary agency into a one-stop shop for writers and artists, New Leaf has had
thirty-six books hit the New York Times bestseller list and eight films produced,
including CBS Films’ sleeper hit, THE DUFF, the DIVERGENT series, and
Cannes Film Festival Jury Prize winner AMERICAN HONEY.

On the literary side, New Leaf has seven literary agents all looking for authors –
everything from picture books to YA, from crime fiction to romance to upmarket
woman’s fiction, and from lifestyle books to cookbooks.

Jordan Hamessleyisthe newest member of the team, and like all new
agents, she needs authors.

With nearly a decade of
experience working on the editorial side of publishing at Penguin Young Readers
(Grosset & Dunlap), Egmont USA, and Adaptive Studios, Jordan made the
switch to agenting. Jordan had the pleasure of editing many award winning and
critically acclaimed authors such as Sara Benincasa, Len Vlahos, Ilsa J. Bick,
Adam-Troy Castro, E.C. Myers, Dori Hillestad Butler, Andrew Keenan-Bolger and
Kate Wetherhead, Michelle Schusterman and more.

She earned a reputation
as an editor for being the “horror girl” and edited horror and ghost stories
for all ages from chapter books (The Haunted Library series by Dori Hillestad
Butler), middle grade (Gustav Gloom series by Adam-Troy Castro) to YA (Bleeding Earth by Kaitlin Ward.) She also has a
deep affection for contemporary middle grade with heart and humor. She is
always looking to find stories that bring the queer experience to the
children’s space across all age ranges.

She is actively building
a list of diverse children’s fiction from picture books through YA and select
adult science fiction and horror authors.

She is also looking for
quirky, nonfiction picture books with a STEM focus.

Some of her favorite
reads of the last few years include Nova Ren Suma’s The Walls Around Us, Isabel Quintero’s Gabi: A Girl in Pieces, Paul Tremblay’s A Head Full of Ghosts, Charlie Jane Anders’s All the Birds in the Sky, and Barbara Dee’s Star-Crossed.

Her top five books of
all time? A Prayer for Owen Meany by John
Irving, Contact by Carl Sagan, The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley
Jackson, The Egypt Game by Zilpha Keatley Snyder, and Carrie by Stephen King.

Jordan
lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her family and sings show tunes and
tap dances in her spare time.

Include the word Query
in the subject line, plus the agent’s name; for example: Subject: Query, Jordan Hamessley. Please also include the category (e.g., PB, chapter book, MG, YA, adult fiction, adult nonfiction, etc.)
You may include up to 5 double-spaced sample pages within the body of
the email. No attachments.

If you’re interested in and finding an agent or publisher
(someday soon or down the road), don’t miss theHow to Get Published workshops on Saturday, Feb 24, in Oakville
with literary agent Martha Webb (see here) and on Saturday,
March 3, in St. Catharines with HarperCollins
editor Michelle Meade and author Hannah Mary McKinnon (see here).

If you’re interested in Kid Lit, be sure to register for the Writing for Children and for Young Adults
mini-conference on Saturday, April 21, in Waterloo with literary agent
Barbara Berson, Simon & Schuster editor Patricia Ocampo, and Young Adult
author Tanaz Bhathena (see here).

And don’t miss Writing Great Characters on Saturday, Jan 27, in Mississauga (see here),
Writing and Revising on Saturday, Feb 10, in Guelph (see here), How to
Write Great Dialogue, Sunday,
Feb 11, in Windsor (see here),
and How to Write a Bestseller with New York Times #1 bestselling author Kelley
Armstrong on Saturday, March 24, in Caledon at the Bolton Library (see here).

Also, starting soon, Brian is offering a full range of weekly writing
classes, from introductory to intensive:

Navigation
tips: Always check out the labels
underneath a post; they’ll lead you to various distinct collections of
postings. Also, if you're searching for a literary agent who represents a
particular type of book, check outthis post.

Sunday, December 24, 2017

When I was seven
years old, Christmas mornings in Mimico always seemed like they were among the coldest days of the year. In our city-sized backyard the icy glaze-topped
snow reached to our thighs; temperatures were always “minus something.”

Inside the
house, in the hastily converted back porch that my older brother Alan and I now
called our bedroom, it was a little warmer but the insulation sciences of the
1950s hadn’t yet developed enough to keep us anywhere near toasty. Meanwhile
below us, in the dirt-floored basement, the coal-fuelled furnace chugged away,
fighting to deliver enough heat to make our family comfortable on this magical
morning.

My brother
and I lay silent but wide awake in our matching twin beds set side-by-side,
barracks-style along the thin wood paneled wall painted powder blue in the
fashionable colour of the day.

It was
Christmas, the most wonderful day on the calendar! Santa’s day! Presents day! The
day that kids around the world spent the other 364 days of the year dreaming
about! And who could blame us? Mr. Eaton’s and Mr. Simpson’s colourful
catalogues, as thick as the New York City phone book, stoked a level of greed
in us that would make even the most ardent capitalist envious.

Specially
produced kids’ television programs which emanated from stations WBEN and WGR in
Buffalo, took black and white electronic marketing to an art form and inspired
in us an overwhelming desire to own every Slinky, every Lone Ranger Pistol and
Holster Set, every Meccano building kit yet created.

“Alan, is it
time to get up yet?” I whispered.

“No. Go back
to sleep,” he responded with no conviction.

I checked the
Westclox wind up alarm clock on the night table between our beds. It warned me
that it was just 5:17, far too early to wake Mom and Dad.

Ah! But wait.
There were the Christmas stockings we had hung the night before at the foot of
our beds. Something to satisfy our Christmas morning curiosity, like an
appetizer before the main course. Would they contain treasures or trinkets? We
used our Eveready flashlights to find out, but please, please God, no oranges
or socks or crummy bow ties! Not again this year!

We leaned
forward, plucked our stockings from their perch on the foot boards and dove in.

My heart was
crushed! Two walnuts? I dug deeper. New underwear? I kept going. I pulled out
an apple, then the inevitable socks. I sat up in bed as a combination of
disappointment and anger invaded my excitement like a black smog. A tear
slipped from the corner of my eye.

My brother
remained silent and I sensed that at that moment we were sharing one of those
bonding sibling events … mutual disappointment. Were these meager stockings
intended to warn us that we couldn’t expect to find much better under the tree?

I was well
aware that we were not a rich family, though not poor either. We were, like
most other families on Eastbourne Crescent, very blue collar. Something to be
proud of but not something a seven-year-old boy could build his Christmas
dreams on. We could only place our faith in Santa to fulfill the inflated,
unrealistic expectations we had conjured in our youthful brains.

“Listen!’
Alan said. “I think I hear the kitchen radio. It’s playing ‘White Christmas.’ It
must be okay to get up.”

“Let’s go!”

We sprang to
our beds as if shot from twin cannons. We headed straight for the Christmas
tree in the living room. There it was in all its glory. Green, red, blue,
yellow lights sparkled like stars illuminating the bright metallic balls, all
covered in glistening silver tinsel. The ivory angel on the tree’s highest
spire beckoned us forward, giving us her permission to come closer. Gifts
wrapped in plain tissue, some red, some green were scattered in a five-foot
radius at the tree’s base.

We stood like
athletes waiting for the starter’s pistol, watching for Mom’s barely
perceptible nod of her head, our signal to let our pent-up curiosity explode in
a flurry of riotous ripping and tearing. In the darkness of a cold, cold winter
Christmas, 1955 was starting to look a whole lot better than our stockings had
portended.

I can’t recall
what gifts I received; they don’t seem important now in the least. It’s the
memories of that boyhood joy that matter beyond measure and I draw on them now
each and every December to lighten my steps and my heart. Mom and Dad are gone
now of course, but their spirits still visit us faithfully each December 25 as
I watch my own children and grandchildren delight in the special joy that only
Christmas can bring.

Gary MacLeod is a Sales
and Marketing Executive who, now in retirement, is eager to make good on a
personal promise to himself: to learn something new every day. Brian’s Creative
Writing Course helps him fulfill that commitment perfectly by making it fun to
develop his interest in communicating more effectively. Gary enjoys spending
his time reading biographies, following Canadian political and social change,
and exploring the countryside with his wife Linda in their sports roadster.

Saturday, December 23, 2017

I was at
work
on a Saturday in November, making pots of steaming coffee, sweeping up sesame
seeds from bagels, and serving a customer with a macchiato when I noticed my
husband walk in, concern on his face. My
brother had called him following a frantic conversation with Mom. Dad had had a seizure at home, had fallen unconscious,
and was being taken to the hospital by ambulance.

My family lived farthest away, an hour from everyone, and my husband suggested I leave
work immediately as my coworker offered to finish the shift. Along the drive, I thought of Dad’s health,
his high blood pressure, smoking habit, two shots of whiskey a night, and how
his mom, my Oma, died of a stroke. We braced
for the worst.

My
brothers, sisters, an aunt and uncle gathered with Mom and Dad in the emergency
department. While he was being examined,
Dad had a second seizure. We knew it was
serious and my siblings and I held hands to pray.On
Sundays we go to church. We get up, eat
breakfast, take showers, and put on clothes that are a bit nicer than the ones
we wear the rest of the week. My Oma’s
watch is the last thing I put on and the most important part of the
outfit. It is laid out on a special
shelf, in a protective case, near an angel figurine I bought in the Maritimes
last year after hearing of my Oma's death. The watch lays in front of a framed print that Dad had the graphic
artist in our family design for each of his six children. The sign reads:

Words to live by

Happy Moments

Praise God

Difficult
Moments

Seek God

Quiet Moments

Worship God

Painful
Moments

Trust God

Every Moment

Thank God

On
the Sunday following the emergency room visit, I got up and went for a long
run. It was dark, cold, and I woke up groggy. Running is routine on mornings when I wake up
feeling crappy. It’s meditative and lifts
spiritual angst. A natural high occurs
when the running is through and stored tension gets released.

After the run, I called my parent’s home,
knowing that Dad had a planned follow up with a neurologist at Hamilton General
Hospital. My twelve-year-old son was
going to play guitar in church that morning and I wanted to be there. I felt Dad would be in good hands and I could
help by praying.

My
sister, who answered the phone, heard of the church plan and suggested the
hospital appointment instead. My runners
high balanced to calm submission. She
told me to meet them on the seventh floor.

I
thought of other times I’d been in a hospital with people who were dying or
facing devastation. Being present was
the best gift in moments of uncertainty.
I packed several magazines and leftover banana bread, alongside
directions to the hospital and a pocketful of change.

Arriving
at Hamilton General, I parked the car and fed eight dollars into the meter,
noting later that for a few extra dollars, I would have hit the maximum and had
parking for the day. The elevator was beyond
the gift shop, whose Christmas colours, ornaments, and cardinal paraphernalia beckoned. Later, I thought.

Dad
lay on a hospital bed, Mom on one side, two sisters on the other. A nurse was at the foot of his bed and all
looked up as I entered with the bag of magazines. I was the only one with coffee.

“I
brought magazines,” I announced. “And O
magazine for you,” I quipped to dad, knowing how much he hated Oprah.

“Oh
no, no, no way!” he responded on cue.

“Don’t
you remember how you used to yell at me to turn her off and get you coffee when
I was younger?” I said.

“Does
anyone want coffee?” I asked, looking again at my cup. I pulled out the Redbook, O, and People
magazines, passing them out, waiting for a response about coffee.

Mom
decided it would be helpful, while waiting, to have two of us sit with Dad and
two go for a walk so the room was less crowded.
My sister and I took the first shift, opting to get Mom’s coffee and a
peanut butter cookie. She always liked a
little treat with coffee. While waiting
to pay, I noticed a cereal called, “Holy Crap Breakfast Cereal.” Laughing, I took a photo.

While
passing the gift shop again, I saw a group of pickles among more traditional
Christmas ornaments. This strange
display became a new focal point and later, when I brought Mom down to see them
near the cardinal ornaments, she paused, perhaps trying to see the value.

When
we returned to Dad’s room, he was being tested by the female neurologist who
looked like she had just finished high school.
Earlier I recalled him asking the nurse whether his doctor would be “a
young guy or an old guy.” Knowing he would
have preferred “an old guy,” this young doctor had everyone’s attention and
completed a thorough exam.

“Do
you want to see my pickle ornament?” I said to my bewildered sisters and
slightly amused dad.

It
wasn’t my first round in an emergency room with a loved one in critical
condition. Several weeks later, Dad is
still alive, recovering, and everyone is grateful. I’ve learned that navigating life’s rough
patches goes better with common sense, strong faith, and a healthy dose of
humour. The pickle ornament will hang on
our tree, serving as a reminder of the time we were in the hospital with Dad
and we nearly lost him but then didn’t.
Being present in the moment with some humour is a great gift.

Marian Dykstra wrote this piece
in Brian's, Writing Personal Stories course. Having this piece published is a
thrill and an honour. She is a retired social worker, enthusiastic
barista, aspiring writer, and mom of three great kids.

Brian Henry has been a book editor, writer, and creative writing instructor for more than 25 years. He teaches creative writing at Ryerson University. He also leads weekly creative writing courses in Burlington, Mississauga, Oakville and Georgetown and conducts Saturday workshops throughout Ontario. His proudest boast is that he has helped many of his students get published.